Chapter 7 #2
I trace the one on his abs with my fingertips, and he shivers under my touch. “Hockey?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He smirks. “Sports hernia. Not exactly heroic.”
“Still,” I whisper. “Makes you look mysterious.”
I lean down and press my lips to the scar, and his hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, keeping me there. I trail kisses up his chest, learning the taste of his skin, the rhythm of his breathing. His fingers unclasp my bra, and then his hands are on me, palms warm and rough against my skin.
“Bed,” he says, and it’s not a question this time but a command.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, and he kneels to remove my jeans, his touch surprisingly gentle on my ankles. Then he’s standing again, unbuttoning his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers. I swallow hard at the sight of him fully naked, aroused and unashamed.
“Lie back,” he says, and again, it’s a command, but one that sends a thrill through me rather than raising my hackles.
I obey, scooting backward on the bed as he follows, and climbs on top of me.
The weight of him feels perfectly heavy, like my body has been waiting for precisely this pressure.
His mouth finds mine again, and we kiss deeply as his hand slides between us, pushing aside the lace of my panties to find me wet and ready.
“Jesus,” he breathes against my lips as his fingers explore me. “You feel amazing.”
I arch into his touch, beyond words now. His fingers circle, press, retreat in a rhythm that has me clutching at his shoulders, my nails leaving marks on his skin. He watches my face as he touches me, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan.
“I want to taste you,” he says, already moving down my body. “Can I?”
“Yes,” I manage, though I’m half-embarrassed by how eagerly I say it.
He slides my thong down my legs and tosses it aside, then settles between my thighs. The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out, my back arching off the bed. He laughs softly against me, the vibration adding another layer of sensation.
“Sensitive,” he murmurs, his breath hot against me. “I like that.”
And then he’s focused entirely on my pleasure, his mouth and fingers working in tandem until I’m a writhing, incoherent mess. The orgasm builds with surprising speed, my abs and thighs clenching tighter and tighter until it snaps with such force that I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming.
Logan works me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, trembling and breathless. When he finally raises his head, his mouth is wet, his eyes dark with desire.
“Condom,” he says, reaching for the bedside drawer. “Unless you’re on something?”
“I am,” I confirm. “The pill. But condom too.”
He nods, retrieving one from the drawer and rolling it on with efficient movements. Then he’s over me again, positioning himself at my entrance.
“Look at me,” he says, and I do, meeting his gaze as he pushes into me with exquisite slowness.
The stretch is both familiar and entirely new—I’ve had sex before, but nothing like this, nothing that fills me so completely. Logan watches my face carefully, pausing when he sees me wince slightly.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
“More than okay,” I assure him, my hands finding his lower back, urging him deeper. “Don’t stop.”
He begins to move, finding a rhythm that has me gasping with each thrust. His control is impressive—even lost in pleasure, he’s mindful of my responses, adjusting his angle when he hits a spot that makes me moan louder.
“That’s it,” he encourages, voice rough. “Let me hear you.”
I’ve never been particularly vocal during sex, always too self-conscious, too in my head.
But with Logan, the sounds escape without my permission—whimpers, pleas and moans that sound like they’re coming from someone else.
He responds with murmured praise that should sound cheesy but somehow doesn’t, not when it’s growled against my neck as he drives into me.
The second orgasm takes me by surprise, building differently than the first—deeper, rawer. When it hits, it hits deep; and I’m momentarily not in control of my body. I’m dimly aware of Logan’s rhythm faltering, of his own release following mine, his face buried in my neck as he groans my name.
For long moments afterward, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin, heartbeats gradually slowing. Logan’s weight should be crushing but feels like an anchor instead, keeping me grounded when I might otherwise float away on the aftershocks still rippling through me.
“Holy shit,” I finally manage, my voice hoarse.
Logan chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest against mine. “My thoughts exactly.” He rolls to the side, disposing of the condom before pulling me against him, my back to his front. His arm wraps around my waist, hand gently spread across my stomach. “You okay?”
“I’m…” I search for words and come up empty. “That was…”
“Yeah,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “It was.”
I should probably feel self-conscious, lying naked in his arms after what we just shared. Instead, I feel a bone-deep contentment that’s entirely new. Logan’s breathing gradually evens out behind me, his arm heavy across my waist, and I let myself drift off, cocooned in warmth and satisfaction.
I awaken the next morning as the blinds leak pale October sun, a soft grid across the duvet.
I come awake to Logan’s steady breath at my back and the solid weight of his arm snug around my waist. For a few seconds I just lie there, sore in places that make me smile, wrapped in warmth that feels new.
He stirs, kisses my shoulder. “Morning,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. His hand spreads across my stomach like he wants reassurance I’m really here. “You okay?”
“More than okay.”
His grin is easy, unguarded. Then his phone buzzes on the nightstand. A muscle jumps in his jaw. He glances, flips the screen face-down, and turns back to me.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, softer now. “You matter.”
He nudges my nose with his and kisses me—slow, warm, unhurried. When he pulls back, he cups my cheek. “Stay. I’ll get us coffee.”
He swings out of bed and throws on sweats, broad shoulders stretching as he reaches for the doorframe. Cupboards open down the hall, water runs, the faint hiss of a coffeemaker follows. The smell drifts back, rich and familiar, filling the space until I’m smiling into the pillow.
He returns with two steaming mugs. “Fuel,” he says, handing me one before sliding in beside me. He props himself against the headboard, mug in his big hand, thigh pressed to mine.
The coffee is strong. I sip while his fingers toy absently with my thigh, like he can’t stand not to touch me.
“You’re spoiling me,” I tease.
“That’s the idea.” His grin flares, but then his phone buzzes again. His shoulders tense for a second before he reaches over, flips it farther away, and settles back. “Hockey can wait. You can’t.”
The want in his voice stills the small doubt stirring in me. I notice the careful way he set the phone aside, but I tell myself not every flicker of tension is about me.
He studies me for a moment, then clears his throat. “I need a little treatment on my shoulder. Trainer wants me earlier than usual.” His thumb traces along my jaw while our eyes lock. “But I want this morning with you first.”
The certainty in his voice dissolves my hesitation.
He leans in to kiss me again, deep enough that my coffee nearly sloshes. I set the mug on the nightstand and run my hand over his chest. He laughs into my mouth, that low rumble I felt in my chest last night.
“Careful,” he says. “Hot liquids.”
“You be careful,” I shoot back, smiling.
His palm slides under the sheet to my bare skin, steady and warm. We stay pressed together against the headboard, kissing and touching until the rest of the world—buzzing phone and all—drops away.
When he finally eases back, he rests his forehead against mine. “Later,” he murmurs, voice rough.
“Later,” I echo, though my body already wants it now.
He steals one more kiss before reclaiming his mug. “Finish your coffee before it’s undrinkable.”
We sip side by side, legs stretched out, trading quiet looks that say more than words. He watches me like he’s memorizing every detail. I tuck a curl behind my ear.
“What?” I ask.
“Just you.” His voice is low. “I like you in my bed.”
The words settle deep in my chest. “Careful. I could get used to that.”
“So could I.”
It’s a small phrase, but the “could” catches my ears, just enough to get my attention, and I feel insecure again. I swallow it down with coffee.
He shifts, bumping my knee with his. “What are you doing later? There’s a farmers market a few blocks away. Cider, pumpkins, gourds the size of toddlers. I’ll carry the bags.”
The image makes me laugh. “You at a farmers market? That I need to see.”
“Then it’s a date.” He kisses me again, slower this time, until I forget the season, the city, everything but him.
We linger. He pauses, eyes moving over me like he’s surveying the scene.
“What?” I ask.
“Looks right,” he mutters, then smirks. “Also, I make decent eggs. You want breakfast before we go?”
“You cook?”
“I scramble. It’s part of my leadership package.”
“Show me, Captain.”
I grab a hoodie from the couch and pull it over my head. It covers me down to my thighs.
In the kitchen he moves with practiced ease, bare feet on cool tile, pulling eggs and butter from the fridge. I perch on a stool, swimming in his hoodie, and watch. He keeps glancing at me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
The phone rattles once more on the counter. He doesn’t look, just finishes stirring the pan with one hand while squeezing mine with the other. His shoulders ease.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“For food?” I counter.
His grin turns wicked. “Both answers work.”
We eat side by side, knees brushing, trading bites. By the time we’re done, my doubts have quieted.
He tips his head toward the bedroom.
“I’ve got about ten minutes to get ready. Let’s go pull all your stuff together and we can continue what we started later.”
“Later,” I say again, and this time it feels like a promise.